


Nobody Should Die Alone

by PistachioWritings



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Serious fluff, Sickfic, is that a thing? if not it is now, the sick's not really explicit but it might be kinda gross if you're sensitive to that kind of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PistachioWritings/pseuds/PistachioWritings
Summary: The death required for becoming an avatar is sometimes physical as much as metaphysical. Jon wasn't expecting the pain that comes with, but at least he doesn't have to suffer alone. Not this time.
Relationships: Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	Nobody Should Die Alone

Jon closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. He raised a weak arm to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, nearly collapsing from the effort as an icy shudder ran down his spine. His stomach clenched instinctively against the pain that laced through his mind and body. He braced himself against the next inevitable wave of sick that he could already feel bubbling inside him. His stomach roiled unpleasantly and he could taste the sour acid in the back of his mouth.

He hoped this next convulsion would be less intense than the one before, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky. He’d been shaking on the cold tile floor of the archive bathroom for what felt like hours. One hour and seventeen minutes, to be exact. The number entered his conscious mind unbidden. The thought wasn’t comforting. Rather, it just reminded him that he’d been dying for over an hour and nobody had noticed. He felt terrible both physically and emotionally, but he didn’t have time to ponder the emotional side as his self-pity was interrupted by a new flood of what felt like liquid hell pushing itself up through his esophagus. It burned.

He was exhausted. Jon had always considered himself to have a fairly strong immune system; he hadn’t been this sick in years, but this wasn’t an illness. He wasn’t sure how, but he Knew that this was his body dying, purging itself of the last bits of humanity he had been clinging to. And it hurt. Every new bout of retching felt like his very essence was being violently ripped apart and flushed down the toilet with what little was left of his lunch.

Crumpling against the wall, Jon wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The shirt was ruined anyways, and at this point, he no longer cared. Somebody was knocking on the door. He wanted to respond, but all he could manage was a low, pained moan.

“Archivist?” The voice that came from the doorway grated on his ears like shards of glass. He could see the word more than he could hear it, a swirl of impossible colors behind his eyes that somehow translated into English. “Are you in here?”

Jon groaned. Of all the people to come looking for him, it had to be Michael. He wanted to tell it to go away, to leave him to suffer in peace, but he knew that would never work. No matter what he said, Michael wasn’t the type to leave him alone unless it wanted to. And it didn’t look like it wanted to. So he shifted to what he hoped was a more respectable position, propped weakly against the bathroom wall as he was, and gathered enough strength to form words.

“Over here,” he sighed voicelessly, his words no more than a strained whisper.

The air shifted as Michael made its way to the bathroom stall where Jon had chosen to ride out his sickness. No, that wasn’t right, Jon thought. It wasn’t the air that was shifting, but the actual fabric of reality itself, tearing and warping around that embodiment of incomprehensibility that had come to find him. The closer it got, the less Jon could trust the stable feeling of existence that he had so long taken for granted.

It cocked its head when it opened the stall door, looking down at him with what appeared to be concern, though Jon wasn’t sure it was capable of such emotions. “Are you okay, Archivist?”

Jon tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a cough. It made his stomach hurt worse than he expected. What had given him away? His ragdoll-weak form on the floor, the greenish tint to his cheeks, the fact that he couldn’t stop shaking? “Michael, I am anything but okay.”

Michael crouched down on the floor next to him and gently brushed the sweat-slick hair from his face, frowning. It felt like if static were solid as Michael’s warm and absurdly long fingers caressed his skin. Jon shivered. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m…” Jon paused to silently wince from the new bolt of pain that decided to shoot through his body. “I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “Dying?” It held his face in its hands and turned him side to side, looking for what, Jon wasn’t sure. “Archivist, that’s… you…” Its voice wavered with worry. “What happened?”

Oh. Jon smiled and prayed it didn’t look too much like a grimace. “No, I’m not dying.” He leaned into Michael’s strange but unexpectedly comforting touch and sighed. “My body’s dying. Did you not…” he stopped and stifled an acidic burp. He cringed and turned back to the toilet for another round of sickness. “I’m sorry, Michael,” he said when he was done, still bent over afraid there might be more.

Michael straightened and looked around suddenly. “Archivist, are you alone? Where are your friends?”

That stung. Jon nodded wordlessly, trying to ignore how utterly alone he had felt before Michael arrived. Michael frowned, confused. It put a hand on Jon’s back and started rubbing gentle circles. It pulled back the dripping strands of hair that had once again fallen in Jon’s face. He didn’t want to admit it, but Jon felt a little better at the monster’s attempt at compassion.

When Jon was confident that he was done for a while, he sat back down against the wall, trembling and silent. Michael sat next to him. “That’s not right,” it said, collecting Jon in its arms. At first he wanted to resist. He still didn’t trust Michael, no matter how nice it was acting at present, but he didn’t have the energy to fight back. Instead, he relaxed and let Michael hold him against its chest. “Michael died alone. You shouldn’t have to die alone too,” it whispered, its glass-shard voice now soft, like a fine crystalline powder. 

Jon heard no heartbeat under the creature’s skin and there were no vibrations of voice when it spoke, but he didn’t care. For the first time in ages, he was being held. It was a sensation he’d almost forgotten existed. Its arms were heavy and warm around him like a weighted blanket. He curled up in Michael’s lap and closed his eyes, counting his own shuddering breaths as Michael stroked his hair until the human compulsion no longer satisfied his lungs. It was finally over.


End file.
